


Pinned Down By the Dark

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Not Shy of a Spark [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Molly, Dom/sub, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Switch Molly, Switch Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"By the end of the week, his arse is going to be as red as her cheeks." It's been a week since Sherlock Holmes felt the sweet, sweet touch of his fiancée, Molly Hooper, and he's eager for punishment. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2554382">With Your Hands Between Your Thighs</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinned Down By the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> You know, if there's one fic that will lead me to the fiery gates of hell, it'll probably be this one—which is precisely why you should read it, really. I wrote this mostly because I knew there were some people who were disappointed that they didn't bang in the end of WYHBYT. So I hope this serves to satisfy you, you perverts.
> 
> Story title taken from [Dangerous Animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qHe3E366_Po) by (who else?) Arctic Monkeys because never let it be said I don’t know how to milk something to within an inch of its life.
> 
> As ever, don't forget to leave kudos, post comments, bookmark and do other such stuff if you so wish.

**Sunday Evening**

“What did you do, love?”

Part of him doesn’t want to answer. That part wants to rebel, and not give in. Why should he? That’s what the small voice at the back of his mind whispers. He’s a free man, of his own free will; he can choose what he’ll speak of and when he’ll speak. Her fingers run up the side of and cup at his jaw and she tilts his head up and round to look at her.

“You’re being very bratty today.” Tongue running quickly over pink-stained lips, she tightens her grip on the crop in her hands and quite without warning, he realises he is not as free as his mind leads him to be. The pleasure of the thought makes his mind swim, and warms him. Amazing what she can make him think, make him feel, with a simple touch or a single gesture.

He swallows a groan and tamps down the shudder that threatens to make its way up his spine which comes with the thought. She did command perfect stillness.

She tilts her head. “Something wrong?”

Her care and attention towards him, sweetness and light when they’re among the duller parties of their social circle, is on the edge of ruthless whenever she steps over the threshold of their bedroom, clad in the lingerie garment of her choice. He swallows.

“No.”

“Then tell me,” she says smoothly. Other dommes in the past he’s been to have used crispness in their tone, and sharp words that bite. While that was all so very thrilling, she, Molly, like everything in her life, looks at her duties as a domme from an entirely different angle. She’s soft, quiet, calm. She exudes authority with ease.

The floor creaks as she moves, stepping forward. Her palm, warm against his skin, flattens out against his back. She moves her hand up, up, and for a moment, he wonders exactly what her plan is. The sensation of her nails digging into his back gives him the answer, and oh, how he loves her. Not too much pressure for pain; plenty enough for pleasure. He hisses when she sinks her nails against his curls and lifts his head. She leans closer to him. Her voice is low, soft.

“Tell me what you did.”

He groans. The confession is tripping off his tongue before he can stop it, the innate desire, urge, to please her overwhelming any ‘bratty’ behaviour.

“Cheated,” he gasps the word out, dropping his head back down on the pillow, “I cheated – Mistress.”

“And how did you cheat?” she asks, eyes narrowed, lips thinned. It’d be hard for anyone else to see a hint of a smile beyond that demanding exterior, but he knows her. He knows his Mistress.

“Interrupted you at work,” he admits. “Twice.”

“Twice,” she echoes. Her tone is thoughtful. She smiles, strands of her hair falling over her eyes. She brushes it back and she moves away, picking up the crop. Turns it over, and over, in her fingers. A grin licks at her mouth.

“No,” she decides, and she puts the crop to one side. (He tries not to let his disappointment show  _too_  much. He knows her and he knows, or hopes maybe, that there’s more to come.) She walks back towards him, and the bonds are untied and her fingers rub easily over his wrists, warming them. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is her way of punishing him? He lightens with a smile when she brings out her second favourite piece of equipment.

“I think you need a lesson in obedience,” she says lightly as he sits up on the bed. She nods towards the floor. “Kneel, love.”

He scrambles to obey, and she chuckles, bending down. The collar snaps against his neck, his pulse throbs against the leather and he’s sure his eagerness would be embarrassing for him to see in anyone else. She takes the lead in one hand, and cups at the edge of his jaw with her other. Her thumb draws against the hollow of his cheek.

“Up you get,” she says, her voice tracing languidly over the words, and her grip at the lead oh-so-slightly tightens as he stands. He stands tall over her, he always does, but her eyes fall, casually scanning his form, and she simply smiles as she locks her gaze with his and he licks at his bottom lip. She says nothing. (She’s never one to waste a sound.)

She turns, hips gently swaying. Her garment of choice tonight is nothing but a white, sheer slip that skirts her thighs and moves as she moves, the soft material swaying from side to side. It’s the sort of material that would brush effortlessly between his fingers and his hands itch to touch her, to have her under his palms, to feel her heat bleed into his skin. Her hair is up, neatly in place with a hair clip, with strands loose around her ears and the sides of her face. God, but he could muss it and tangle it and she would  _thank_  him for it. On another night, perhaps.

She leads him into the living room, and bids him to kneel in front of his chair. He sinks to the floor without question.

“If you think about it,” she murmurs, her thumb ghosting idly over her bottom lip, her fingers hovering at the edge of her jaw. She reaches down and her fingers dance over his skin as she steps around him in a circle (appraising him, marking his mental state, what he  _needs_ ), drawing her hand over his shoulders. She sits right on the edge of his chair. She looks at him. “We both cheated.”

Her voice leans towards a low purr. Gradually, she leans back, eyeing him as she lies there and plays with the hem of her slip. She lifts it up, brushes it to the side. Twists it between her fingers. She only allows him glimpses, teases until eventually, she lets out a breath. She reaches back and undoes her hair. It spills out over her shoulders.

“We both need to be punished, love.”

She spreads her legs, and her sweet cunt is on display, for him and him only. She tugs at the lead with one hand, gently urging him to shift forward. She touches herself with her other hand, languidly, as if she has all the time in the world. Her pink lips part, her shoulders hitch a little, and his cock is heavy. She locks her gaze on his.

“Until I tell you, you must not let me climax.” Her order is succinct, decided and his lips twitch with a smile. “Do what you want, but do not let me come.”

Clever, clever woman.

He shifts forward. His palm settles against her knee. He has to look at her, has to measure her. He moves his hand as he lifts his head. She doesn’t break his gaze.

His hand moves down, against her thigh, and he reaches up with his other as he bends forward, gripping at the slip. The material slides easily against her pale skin and she arches only a little, a breath on her lips, when he kisses open-mouthed at her hip. His teeth scrape against the flesh as he mouths at the section of skin, tasting her (leaving a bruise no doubt) and she releases the lowest hiss. He has to smile when he repeats the gesture on her other side and he feels a tug at his collar and sees her fingers curl over the lead. He urges himself forward, still keeping his hand against her thigh, fingers gently massaging the surface. He lines the underside and valley of her breasts with his hand and she smiles to herself. Covering one breast, he takes the other pebbled nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue against it. The sigh she gives is light, the hint of a moan hidden in the sound and her chest arching to the sensations of his touch. When he bestows the same treatment to her other breast, the sigh fades and the moan takes precedence. He draws back. Stares at her.

Eyebrows tilted upwards, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each gentle breath. He ducks down and bestows the lightest of kisses at the valley of her breasts and he regrets any negative comment or thought he’s had in regards to them. The amount of attention he pays to them however, not just now, has most likely absolved him of that particular sin.

His hand spreads out against her stomach, fingers curling as he moves his hand towards the small of her back, warm against his palm. His fingers wrap around, kneading against her hip and he shifts back. He brings his mouth to her, she’s gloriously wet, and he wants to taste every part of her. She hums, the sound tripping out from the back of her throat, as he draws his tongue against her clit, drawing it back. He repeats the process, is rewarded with another gasp, deeper this time. A trace of wanting. He lifts his head and she groans (the impatience in the sound makes him chuckle), though the sound slips and fades as his fingers replace his mouth, deftly drawing against her folds and sinking into her to touch at her clit. His mouth finds her neck, pale and exposed and beautiful, and he kisses it. A whole week without her. How could he have ever thought such a thing would be easy? That day in the lab, him teasing her with the feel of the crop against her back, flashes in his mind and he can’t help but groan and she’s grinding on his fingers, seeking more, getting closer. Her body trembles beneath him and damn it – he’s slipping, getting carried away. Disobeying her. He slows his pace and she almost whines, her head turning to seek him out. She takes his mouth with hers, her fingers sinking into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp and it’s almost savage and he loves it, her, all of it.

She breaks the kiss, but doesn’t let go of his curls. Her smile widens as she pushes him downwards. He obeys wordlessly, shifting back and his hands descending to her hips, fingers gliding over her sides and his tongue returns to her cunt. He’s ruthless now, moving his tongue rhythmically against her and he never once lets his eyes fall from her face. He moves closer, going deeper, and she writhes, bucks until he can’t take it anymore, Jesus he just can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he needs her, he needs every part of her and he tells her as much and she, with a coquettish smile, sinks her hand back into his hair, brings him up to kneel at her feet, shifts and turns herself around.

His palms spread out against her hips and move up her back to hold the curled tresses of her hair. She laughs and arches forwards, straightening. He presses another kiss to her neck, and she hums from the back of her throat.

“Yes,” she murmurs the single word softly, sweetly, and she turns her head. Her mouth traces over his. Teasing. Emphasising. He replies by winding his arms around her waist, hands ascending. His thumbs draw gently over the pebbled pink tips of her breasts and she gasps, biting down on her bottom lip as he covers them with his palms, light laughter floating at the edges of the sound. He smiles. Delight is a familiar feeling to him. It has been ever since he finally allowed himself to love her. It’s echoed off the walls and he’s felt it in the way she moves against him, begging for more.

Now, tonight, in the dark of their living room, she takes one of his hands and guides it down towards her beautiful cunt. It’s wet, soaked, and she writhes, her fingers clutching against the leather of his chair and her head falling back onto his shoulder when he slips his fingers into her folds. He reaches up, and sinks his fingers into her hair. His nails scratch, just slightly, at her scalp (retaliation), and she makes the filthiest, most indescribable noise. He smiles. God, but she’s eager for it. Not making a fuss, yes, but definitely eager.

With only a soft command from his lips, she happily bends forward, propping herself up on her elbows and her arse on full, gorgeous display. One hand rests against her shoulder; his other caresses her warm skin and twines against her hair. She spreads her legs.

He guides himself into her with a groan and a whisper of her name. She’s hot around his cock, and she gasps and pushes against him in such a way that he finds himself letting out a guttural groan. A few slow thrusts, easing into her, and an order from her has him quickening his pace and before he knows it, they’re both pushing against one another, his hands in her hair, her writhing underneath him, taking everything he can give her and he’s spiralling, spiralling and she’s panting, calling out his name and he’s bending forward, pressing his open mouth to her back and her shoulders, tasting every inch that he can of her.

He will never, ever have enough of her. He will never be bored by her. She will never be bored by him. He hopes, he  _knows_  that and he tugs at her hair, grip tightening as she quakes around him. They both call out their climax, and he holds her as they, as one, sink back onto the chair.

* * *

Hair drying and now dressed in a thick jumper she’s had since university and her white silk pyjama bottoms, she curls up on the bed, with a book on her lap. She glances up as he steps inside, hair damp and tangled with a towel wrapped around his hips. He’s sat on the edge of the bed and shaking his head, ruffling at his damp curls, when he hears her laugh. He turns, eyes narrowing.

“I love you,” Molly says, in answer to his silent question and he doesn’t swallow his grin that appears at the words. Abandoning her book to one side, she crawls forward over and comes up to kneel behind him, letting her arms rest against his shoulders.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” she murmurs quietly. His eyebrows rise at her words, and he turns his head. She sighs.

“Mrs Hudson lied about the daylight savings.”

He should be annoyed at this revelation, to know that his landlady is at fault for him having to spend an afternoon vacuuming the living room in nothing but a pair of Speedos (an item which was quickly burnt after use, there were only so many things he could tolerate, even for Molly Hooper), but when he turns and takes Molly’s hand in his and the small pink diamond—seemed appropriate—appears to glitter in the soft light, he can do nothing but tuck his fingers underneath his fiancée’s chin, tilt her head up and gift her mouth with a gentle kiss. He feels her smile at the gesture.

“Somehow,” his voice is a low hum of a murmur as he turns fully and she shifts back, her eyes lighting up with the brightness of an entirely knowing smile, “I’m not surprised.”


End file.
